2015-04-02T11:19:09-07:00http://www.kandyfangs.com/Octopress2015-04-02T11:02:48-07:00http://www.kandyfangs.com/stories/venom/vampire04I fired my gun, and the bullet passed through my opponent as if he was smoke. No surprise, of course, this foe was more wraith than flesh and bone. But flesh and bone he was, and filled with the blood of his prey. An Itoril, once long ago if ever, he had escaped the confines of mortality.

Thyme appeared precisely the same as he had on our last meeting some decades ago. Dressed in boots, a dark duster pulled open to one side to show off his wide belt sagging with a heavy iron handgun and a sword, a Stetson perched on his head, he looked as though he stepped right off the range and out of the nineteenth century. His face was the same, too, pale and leathery. His eyes dazzled with wisdom and enough confidence to melt a man.

I lowered my weapon and waited for him to speak.

Thyme nodded and cocked his head as if to say how nice it was to see me again. The feeling was nearly mutual. I took some comfort at gazing upon him as the nearly forgotten past awakened from slumber teasing the back of my mind with warmth of home and the eagerness to explore the world. When at last Thyme spoke, it took me by surprise. His voice sounded softer and warmer than I recalled.

“My dear Kandice, only one question I have for you. One burning query. After all that I had given you, sacrificed for you, why did you seek your own end?”

An Itoril Executioner was a position of great respect. Orders came infrequently, usually names written on cards or occasionally whispered. Preferences and frequency changed with each passing Magistrate. An Executioner’s position was a life sentence, and retirement came by the hand of her successor. Only the best remained Executioner for long. With length of service came more respect.

And decreasing number of applicants. In my fourth decade of service, I had defended my position for the last time. By my sixth decade of this sentence, I began discarding names without thought. It wasn’t as mundane as housework, but executing criminals felt as routine, and worse, it felt terribly cold.

I couldn’t fault Thyme’s teachings. No, for my curse I had Steve Reynolds to thank for that. I was never the best fighter. Not even close. Sure, my feminine charm allowed me to get close enough for murder or a snack. Still, I’d never have survived as Executioner until Steve had shown me his shadows between worlds, his shortcuts through time. Some Itoril could dip into the shadows. Rare could any follow me into the depths, and none swam as far into the violet storm as Steve.

Gazing at Thyme, I realized I wasn’t really a wraith at all. I was no longer alive, but I wasn’t dead. Steve could go on about the physics of it all. He had analogies to explain the shortcuts through time. There was one about the cat in the box. Schrödinger. I felt like that cat in the box, and the persons outside the box couldn’t say if I was alive or dead, not until they open the box. Until then I carried the memories of life and death together as one.

Around my eighth or ninth decade of service—I had lost track of time—I had seduced Steve Reynolds into finalizing my retirement. I still see his blade coming at me within Club Necropolis. I had fallen on the dance floor and landed inside my old music store four decades earlier. Shortcuts through time always led forward, but in death I had somehow stumbled backward like awakening within a memory.

“I had grown weary of my station.”

Thyme nodded twice and told me what I did took courage. He had wanted to return my body to its resting place at January Nine, but my corpse had been taken beyond his reach.

Steve had seen to that. Now I had no doubt my body rested deep within the murk between worlds, the box holding my state unknown, neither dead nor alive.

The fog swarmed around, and Thyme melted away.

I shouted after him demanding he tell me how to escape my purgatory.

An arrow into my mind, his message came to me.

Seek my perfect child. Meet my dearest Nine.

Canceled

It’s tough to let go, but best when unable to give Kandy, Nine, Peter, and friends the attention they deserve.

Your feedback has been a shining light. Thanks.

]]>2015-03-26T18:13:18-07:00http://www.kandyfangs.com/stories/venom/nine14The vampire appeared much like Augustus Thyme had described in a story told seven years ago. A shade within the fog, Vampire Thyme stood there wrapped in a cloak of fog mixing with the smoldering darkness swirling up from his cowboy hat. Soot, her grandfather had described the powder tumbling away from the old duster hanging from the vampire’s shoulders.

Holding a handgun, Nine faced the vampire, her weapon aimed directly at his torso. Her arm remained steady surprising her considering she had never held a gun before. It felt comfortable in her easy grip. A bullet seemed inadiquate, though, and she slowly lowered the gun.

Vampire Thyme took a step backward swallowed by the fog.

A jolt shook Nine, and her body trembled. In a blink, the fog was gone. She gazed at the entrance to the old tomb on the side of the hill under the fading evening light filtering through the thick evergreens. In the place of the gun, her hand gripped the straps of her backpack.

She stood exactly where she had come seconds earlier. In the shade, the entrance to Thyme Tomb appeared dark and ominous, and its cold, damp breath lifted her hair. Chills. She shuddered.

The vampire hadn’t been here, of course. On a street somewhere, perhaps an old dirt road. She felt strongly about this even though she couldn’t place the location. It hadn’t even been a vision. A trigger, like a familiar scent or a melody, sometimes caused a distant memory to come crashing into the front interrupting thought. Like that. Now this strange memory faded deep into the background. A road or a field, she couldn’t see it clearly. Hell, the fog may have been conjured by her grandfather’s story.

Memories had a way of mixing details, and this one must have been a serious toxic mess. Where had the gun come from? She felt certain the weapon had been a 1911, whatever designation that was held no meaning now. The only guns she knew were her grandfather’s Civil War antiques locked away in a display cabinet, and she had never once touched them.

Lost in a haze, the only detail she could picture was the dark shape of the vampire dressed in the nineteenth-century cowboy outfit. She tried to forget it, but that image ingrained itself into her thoughts and refused to let go.

Nine tugged the rusted gate open banging against the mossy rock, and tossed her backpack inside the tomb. Holding her breath, she squeezed through the opening. She pulled her phone out and tapped the flashlight icon. Shining the light around, she checked the narrow hall. Satisfied no critters lurked within, she snatched her bag slinging it over her shoulder and walked down the narrow passageway.

An odor of rust and dry decay hung in the air.

The gate screeched and clanged against the rock.

“Who lives here?” asked Tigris.

Turning about, Nine shined the light towards the entrance splashing Tigris’s leather boots, up her bare legs to her black tee with a faded Club Necropolis Vampire Love logo. Tigris squinted, and Nine lowered the light.

“No one I hope.”

The dim light filtered in through the gate behind Tigris accentuated her curvy features as she slinked her way closer. Her iridescent eyes crackled fire within. A demoness approached.

Turning away, Nine studied a rock on the floor within the flashlight beam as she waited for the haunting image to melt away. Perhaps inviting an Itoril wasn’t such a good idea after all. Tigris always seemed like such a sweet lady, though. Nicer than Lamia, but so much more dangerous in appearance.

The chamber remained the same as before, the coffin sat in one corner and a small dried carcass in the other. Besides dog prints, her shoe marks ran into the wall where the secret door blocked the hidden stairs to the sepulcher.

“Why did you invite me to your dungeon?” said Tigris.

“Tiger,” said Nine. She pulled a box of latex gloves and held it out. “Or do you prefer Tigris?”

Tigris plucked a pair of gloves from the dispenser top and smiled. “My friends call me Tiger, and we’re freinds now, right?”

Nine smiled. “Tiger, I asked you here because I don’t have anyone else I can trust. I can trust you, can’t I?”

“Sure.”

“Besides, few I now are skinny enough to squeeze inside that gate.”

Tigris sniffed the air and soured her face.

“That reminds me,” said Nine. On her last visit in the tomb, she had felt ill and lost consciousness. Digging through her bag, she found her candle and butane lighter.

She set the candle on the coffin. Raising the lighter, she flicked the wheel with her thumb. The flame erupted into a wriggling dance and fell to a steady burn. Lifting the candle, she held the wick to the flame.

A red glow, the wick refused to take the fire, and dark smoke curled into the air.

Nine marched into the passageway closer to the entrance and tried again.

The candle took the fire and burned brightly. Slowly, she walked deeper into tomb and watched the flame diminish. Inside the chamber the candle took its last breath.

“Bad Air,” said Nine. She held her phone up shining the flashlight onto the coffin. “That must be what did me in the last time I was here.”

“Now what?” asked Tigris.

“Can you detect anything inside the coffin?”

“Sorry, I left my x-ray glasses at home.”

Opening the coffin within bad air would be unwise, and removing the coffin would mean clearing all the big rocks away from the entrance so the gate could open. Either way, a great deal of work for what could prove nothing of interest.

Returning to the gate, Nine looked the rocks over. The one against the gate appeared easy enough to push aside, but next to it was a what could be the top of a boulder sticking up out of the muck. Even if a normal rock, it would mean considerable work digging it out.

As she gazed sullenly at the iron bars, Nine thought about the sudden flashback with the gun and the vampire, the memory that couldn’t possibly be hers. Not in how she had remembered it anyway.

Spinning around, Nine gazed at her companion leaning against the wall. “Tiger, do you believe in vampires?”

Tigris frowned.

“Not Itoril I mean, but actual immortal vampires.”

“Is that what you believe is sleeping inside that coffin? A mythical creature?”

Nine felt stupid for asking. Grandfather Augustus had thought there was much more to Thyme, their namesake, than there was about any Itoril person. Consuming blood and memory to become its victim went beyond the nibbling of Itorils for thrills or rare delicacy. What proof had Augustus found? She needed to finish reading the guide.

“Are you certain you want to open this door?” said Tigris. She glanced into the darkness.

“The bad air is likely coming from within the ground.”

“No,” said Tigris, “I mean do you truly want to see inside this coffin?”

This gave Nine great pause. If the coffin turned out to be empty like the January Nine box, there would be nothing of value here. This opportunity had been presented not due to Augustus Thyme’s research, but by Itoril business associates with motives all their own. Yasmine’s henchman, Xavier, had made the claim that this was the tomb of original Thyme. And without providing evidence. There had been no chance to inquire after losing consiousness inside the tomb. What did Yasmine gain by sharing this tomb’s location? Trust.

Thyme Funeral had fallen behind on venom harvest quota for Yasmine’s company. A process dependent on Yasmine’s underlings sending Itoril corpses. A wicked cycle without control. Trying to catch up, Sebastian had murdered an Itoril for venom, but not for Yasmine’s sake. In order to release baby Sebastian from Vampire Thyme, Augustus had struck a bargain: an annual quota of venom in exchange for a Thyme’s life. Vials of venom delivered to Yasmine’s company were somehow being counted by the Thyme patriarch.

Considering Augustus had spent decades searching for this tomb and failed, there seemed only two reasons someone outside of the family would have located it. Either something profitable hid here, or the only individual old enough to recall the location had revealed it. If there had been anything worth plundering, the gate would open wide, the rocks cleared.

Vampire Thyme wanted Nine to open this door of opportunity, and that concerned her.

Fog rolls through the woods. Within the murk, red splashes airborne droplets. A flash, and another, slicing between trees, each pass of a strobe spraying a red mist, the dragon’s steaming blood rolling on the currents, disappearing into her frothy breath.

Near the sepulcher, over on the dusty walking path, fog swirls into itself, floating back against the breeze, and darkens into smoke. A moist boot-print darkens the dirt. Stepping through the veil, a dark figure arrives, each step expends a dark cloud dissipating into the air.

Purple mist descends upon me and an ethereal fog condenses into ghostly forms.➥ Skyscrapers surround me. Gazing through the pale forms, I see the endless wasteland beyond. A phantom city, apparitions on the sidewalk stroll in slow motion. Colorless, silent cars move on the roadway. Familiar. I think I’ve been here outside a music store. A ghost walks through me—chilling, and she fades away along with the city.

Ice filling my veins, my head throbs. The wraith speaks, not with a voice, but an invading thought penetrating my head sending prickles trickling down my neck.

Kandy, will you bleed for me?

Hell no, not again. Vertigo sends my head spinning within this timelessness.

On the street, fog swirls into itself, floating back against ghostly cars traveling in slow motion, and smolders, automobiles disintegrating. Trees sprout up through the mist, and a sepulcher floats on clouds.

Fog rolls through the woods.➥ Within the haze, red splashes airborne droplets. Stepping through the veil, he reappears. Each step shakes soot free, and dark grit rises from his hat.

Keeping my rhythm, I raise my Colt 1911, and continue the dance.

]]>2015-03-13T00:36:36-07:00http://www.kandyfangs.com/stories/venom/nine13Misting drizzle soaked Roseland streets, automobiles splashed through puddles, and the city whispered to the night. Deep percussions shook stone walls, razoring up fire escapes, the muted music calling youth to the door of Club Necropolis. Heads nodded to the beat. A young woman shrilled and wrapped arms around another waiting in line for the big man to frisk them at the door.

The big, bad doorman, Axe, they called him, his scrutinizing gaze cut as sharp as his head gleamed bald. Nobody gets by the guardian dressed all in black without club membership or great tits. ɘniИ had on her slinky, red dress, but she feared her boobs weren’t quite enough for bad-ass, Mister Axe.

A name. That was all that she needed. Dancing was always a treat, but tonight the thought of capturing the right name set her groove in motion.

Spotting her new best friend waiting nearby, ɘniИ skipped the line and hurried to meet Tigris, or Tiger as her friends called her, and they were friends until the end. Returning her greeting, Tiger clawed at the air and growled in an endearing way.

With a wave, Tiger showed ɘniИ to the doorman. A nod and a smile, they were in! The doors opened, and singing guitars, heavy beat of drums called to them. Grooving to the beat they descended the steel stairs into white mist cloaking a sea of writhing bodies.

Club Necropolis, a lively contradiction in vampire worship.

Hunting. Not for a delicious man, although several tempting treats called for a caress, but tonight they hunted a little man, part of the trail leading to a certain thief. Watching Tiger prowl the dance floor was like watching a dangerous feline stalking her prey on the savanna. She blended in, slinking to the motion, dancing with each person in turn, making her way towards the stage.

Electric heat met cool mist. An operatic cry, undulating, guitars singing to the demons. Thunder. Dancing to the music was sex before the kiss.

At the edge of the stage, a small man played his guitar to a frenzy of screaming women. Tiger looked over her shoulder and motioned up at the guitarist. This was our man. ɘniИ squeezed in close behind as Tiger pressed her way through the storm of swinging hips and waving neon bracelets. The guitarist released a fury of sound and stomped with the crowd to the drummer’s beat.

Spotting Tiger, the man with the guitar shrank back a step, his instrument burping and squelching.

The girl with the feline name climbed onto the stage to the delight of two men sneaking peeks up her dress.

A shrill cry, and the guitar broke into a sputter as the prey fled behind the fat man with the bass guitar. Tiger chased after, and the band continued the beat. ɘniИ worked her way through the crowd. On the run, the man handed his guitar to the blue-haired vocalist. She shouldered the instrument without missing a word and played like her life depended on it.

Fists pumping the air, the audience cheered.

ɘniИ exploded from the crowd and jazzed her way between islands of dancing pairs. Spotting the fleeing guitarist shouting up at a bouncer in black, she cut in his direction. The bouncer laughed. Tiger dove off the stage and body surfed the currents, tapping arms and pointing her direction. Slipping free, she found her feet and met ɘniИ shooting for their prey.

Up the stairs the two chased their man out the main door.

And there he was, held up in the air by big, bad-ass Axe. The doorman released the catch into Tiger’s claws.

“Hey, Tiger,” said the musician, quivering. “Nice kitty. Yeah?”

“Little man,” said Tiger. She ran her finger down his chest. “We were curious to know if you’ve overheard anything about a big score.”

“Yo, Tiger, you know I’m not into that scene anymore.”

ɘniИ approached Axe and smiled. Taking hold of his shoulder, she climbed up and planted a thank-you kiss on his cheek. Slipping back down, she gave him a pat on the butt along with her best call-me smile.

Tiger poked her prey in the chest. “Still have ears don’t ya?”

“Hey, yo, maybe I, uh, overhead some shit. Uh, you’re still not into the biting thing, am I right?”

Tiger growled.

“Okay, nice Tiger,” said the guitarist. He held a hand up, palm open. “Old Town is buzzing about cracking the code. Vampire Ice, yo! So cold it packs a punch nearly as hard as authentic vampire venom, but with sky high blues. Royal bitchen ice, so I hear. For reals, kitty-cat gal.”

“Give me a name,” said Tiger.

“Marcus. Ask for Jon Marcus.”

Now they had a name of the thief responsible for the stolen drug.
ɘniИ felt pleased with her new friend, Tiger. Pleased as punch. Best of friends until the end, or at least until she held that secret to imitation venom.

Peter’s message crept into my head. I couldn’t hear him, or smell him, as if he wasn’t actually here and now. After our previous conversation at the restaurant, I began to realize Peter and I were out of sync in time. I stood here among the graves within the fog, and he stood there, a few steps apart in the world and a giant leap away in time.

“Steve? Of course I know Steve! Where is he?”

Laura shot me a peculiar look, the sort of face one shows the crazy old lady speaking to herself on the street corner. Of course, I understood to some extent what was going on, and that Peter was quite real standing at too far a distance for Laura, fully grounded in the world, to perceive. I wonder though if the crazy old lady would insist her voices are real, too.

He sent me your car, weapons, some blood, and a serum.

Peter’s message banged in the back of my head and swam around before fully taking meaning. I recognized words on their own as I felt them out, some sort of translation taking place. Peter had my car? Besides the wraith riding in the back, Laura on shotgun, I hadn’t noticed anyone else inside my beautiful car.

The time issue.

Peter stood over there, whenever. He appeared human, but then, so had Steve Reynolds, a master at creeping through the shadows within his quiet place taking shortcuts through time. Without a scent, I couldn’t be certain if Peter truly was human or another wraith.

Nine, Kandy is here.

Hearing this number, I quickly searched the area. Peter had addressed someone else, a specter within the boneyard on my side, a person in his time. The apparition remained hidden from me. Nine seemed an odd name, if it was truly a given name, not some cute nickname or designation. Stranger though, this number held some reverence for me in respect to a place in time. Of course, I needed to ask about this name.

“Who the hell is Nine?”

“The hell should I know,” said Laura. She folded her arms and frowned. “Kandy, you’re psychotic you know that? More than usual.”

Peter suddenly became more transparent then snapped back again. Features rippling out of the air, he became nearly lifelike. For a moment, I caught a familiar scent fading into a memory.

The serum is supposedly a cure for you and I.

“Let’s have it then.”

“Kandy?” said Laura. She huffed and patted her abdomen. “So now you want some of this? Here in the cemetery?”

I’m sorry, it was stolen.

“We need to get it back!”

Darkness swallowed Peter into a smoking figure and floated away, a rising mist melting into the fog over the graves. Laura had disappeared, too, or relative to her and her world, I had left her having lost grip with my anchor. I stood alone on the path behind the funeral home.

Among rows of old gravestones stood a lonely sepulcher, the place I had reawakened long ago when I had first witnessed the world through my Itoril eyes. It seemed strange standing before the stone structure now questioning my very nature. Not even an Itoril could cheat death, or stroll freely through time.

There were only two individuals I knew whom held such dark knowledge. The first, Steve Reynolds, my mentor in walking through the shadows between worlds. The second, Thyme from whom I had inherited my thirst for blood. The answer to the riddle for my tenuous grasp on the world must reside with these two, and the only place I knew to search for them was from the start here at the end.

Within the Thyme Sepulcher, after a bout of torment, my former life had ended. Bathing in blood within a sarcophagus, I had reawakened as Kandice Knight. I had drained all my thoughts of her away. Her name had abandoned memory long ago. I only knew her as a place in time, January Nine.

]]>2015-02-27T04:30:27-08:00http://www.kandyfangs.com/stories/venom/thief04Note: this episode with Peter is the same scene as the previous post from Nine’s perspective. Choose your path.

Walking up the hill, Peter quietly made his way through the cemetery. The time, nine after nine, his phone told him. Looking up, he found Nine approaching. It felt as though the universe was trying to tell him something. Nine never came after nine. There was only Nine. He had seen her earlier in the evening inside the funeral home, and here she came again, on the time.

Nine after Nine.

She wore a coat over what appeared to be a nightshirt leaving her legs bare with wool socks scrunched down to her sneakers. Her attire made her appear younger, childlike.

“Tara has been in your head, Peter.”

“Tara is as real to me as you are standing before me now.”

Nine stepped closer and twirled her hair the way girls do when they want to be noticed. Unlike that other Nine he had found playing dead in the mortuary, this was the Nine he knew. Throwing an arm around her shoulder, he pulled her close into a hug. She squeezed him back.

Peter walked with Nine between a row of graves making their way up the hill. Reaching out he wrapped his fingers around hers. Nine squeezing his hand reassured him of her support. Seeing her free hand twirling her hair left no doubt about her interest.

Approaching the back end of the cemetery behind the funeral home, Peter spotted a shadow melting out of the woods and stretching along the path. Defying the lamplight, the shade grew bolder oozing into a woman’s curvy figure. It stopped near a sepulcher.

Freezing in place, Peter gawked at a shadowy, nearly ethereal woman dressed in denim. He hadn’t expected to find Kandy haunting him outside the restaurant.

Releasing Nine’s hand, he folded his arms and dove straight into business about the strange letter that had accompanied Kandy’s belongings.

“Do you know Steve Reynolds?”

The reply came hammering into his head. Not words exactly, but a voice of thought his mind translated for him.

Steve? Of course I know Steve! Where is he?

“Peter,” said Nine, “is your sister with us?”

“He sent me your car, weapons, some blood, and a serum.”

The bags of blood and serum had arrived within a coffin along with a sword and a notebook full of chemistry notes. He had gathered from Steve’s letter, Kandy had used a coffin as a lockbox. The odd delivery apparently held sentimental value.

“Who are you speaking with, Peter?”

“Nine, Kandy is here.”

Kandy glanced around. Her gaze returned a menacing bolt.

Who the hell is Nine?

Realizing Nine and Kandy couldn’t see the other dampened any semblance of sanity, but he remained resolved on getting answers.

“The serum is supposedly a cure for you and I.”

Let’s have it then.

“Peter, I think that stuff might be drugs and will give you hallucinations.” Concern filled Nine’s voice.

“I’m sorry, it was stolen.”

The thought pierced his head as Nine’s voice reached his ear; the two women spoke as one, “We need to get it back.”

Glancing at Nine, Peter found her expression twisting between concern and confusion. Returning his attention on his visitor, he found the path empty. Nothing stood among the graves. Beside the path, the lone stone tomb slept soundly.

]]>2015-02-26T07:45:13-08:00http://www.kandyfangs.com/stories/venom/nine12Note: this episode with Nine is the same scene as next post from Peter’s perspective. Choose your side.

After locking the front door and turning out the light in the office, Nine headed downstairs and out the back. Holding her coat closed over her nightshirt, she made her way down the hill and into the graveyard. Checking her phone, she found two missed calls from Peter, one left while she had been inside the Thyme Tomb. After nine in the evening was an unexpected time to find Peter visiting the graveyard considering his restaurant remained understaffed.

Peter had come to visit the grave of his sister, Tara Gray. At the restaurant, Peter had been imagining his dead sister helping out, delivering wine and filling in behind the bar. Tara had supposedly been there for the team photograph. Of course, no one else had seen Peter’s sister. Records had pointed Peter to Thyme Funeral Home and the graveyard on the hill.

“Tara has been in your head, Peter.”

Peter offered a polite smile and said, “Tara is as real to me as you are standing before me now.”

And the restaurant owner was right, wasn’t he? Peter didn’t strike her as a crazy person. He always seemed so calm and understanding. After all the reading about vampires, all she knew about the semi-secretive Itoril people, how could she deny that Peter saw his sister? Tara’s ghost may not be an actual spirit, but Tara could be something only Peter saw.

Reaching out, Peter pulled Nine into a hug. Warm and wonderful, Nine squeezed him as she imagined life without corpses, murders, and vampires. The simple life of working with Peter in the restaurant was a dream where the biggest concern was running out of booze.

“Not that,“ said Peter. He nodded up the hill at the funeral home. “In the mortuary.”

Nine winced. “What about the mortuary?”

How much had Peter heard about the murder? As far as anyone knew the shooting took place in town, and her father had been arrested at the funeral home. No one needed to know she had sawed the head from that Itoril man.

Her stomach began twisting about, and she buried her face against Peter’s chest to hide her guilt. The hug worked its magic melting her sin away.

Together they walked quietly between a row of graves. His hand took hold of hers, and she squeezed his fingers feeling like a teen sneaking through the cemetery for a naughty night of passion.

At the top of the hill nearing the family sepulcher, Peter stopped suddenly and released her hand. He gazed at something with intensity. Nine searched the rows of grave markers, the stone tomb, and the path leading back towards the woods. She found nothing, but whatever Peter had seen made him tremble.

“Do you know Steve Reynolds?” said Peter. He stared at the area between the path and the sepulcher.

“Peter,” said Nine, “is your sister with us?”

“He sent me your car, weapons, some blood and a serum,” said Peter.

He appeared calmer now, but he continued watching the same ghost or whatever he imagined there. It couldn’t be his sister, Tara, though. The car had come from someone else. Steve? No, a woman, Nine felt certain the car had belonged to a woman.

“Who are you speaking with, Peter?”

Peter glanced over and said, “Nine, Kandy is here.” Looking towards the sepulcher, he continued speaking to the invisible woman. “The serum is supposedly a cure for you and I.”

They had found the bag of clear goo within the coffin, and though it hadn’t quite appeared like venom, Nine held a growing suspicion the serum was based on Itoril venom. That it could be a cure for anything seemed crazy. A cure for reality, perhaps.

“Peter,” said Nine, firmly. “I think that stuff might be drugs and will give you hallucinations.”

“I’m sorry,” said Peter, addressing the other woman, “it was stolen.”

A bag of venom that big could solve her quota problem for the year.

“We need to get it back.”

Peter flashed Nine a peculiar look. His expression darkened, and he began glancing around as if searching for something. The invisible woman. Kandy had left him.

Peter Gray had lost track of how long he had spent in the cemetery on the hillside. He gazed at the grave and studied the markings. Both there and not, he stood, caught between one second and another.

Checking his phone, he found the time. At seven minutes after nine in the evening it was getting late. He thought he should get back to the restaurant. No call had beckoned him, though. They could manage without him for a few minutes longer.

The grave consisted of a block of stone among a crowded grid of stones. All that remained of his sister was dust in a box buried beneath grey stone marked, Tara Gray.

Hit by a car three decades ago, according to reports, but her memory followed him still.

Weekly visits at the restaurant, wine deliveries, her presence found and never missed. His big sister had watched over him, had argued with him, and had teased him before going on her way. And she always returned, each week at the restaurant, to this very day.

Tara hadn’t followed him here, naturally. Her ghost standing over her grave would shatter this reality. Another Tara Gray, she would say. He’d listen, and dream his life away.

And for good reason. The stone beside hers marked the grave of her sibling, Peter Gray.

Not other Grays, Peter decided. Ghosts were lingering memories, and he held onto the ghost of Tara Gray. He wondered to whom his memory belonged if not to the dead resting on the side of the hill.

Smashing down on the accelerator pedal and turning the wheel, I drove into the other lane and around a slow-moving SUV. I listened to the roar of the engine and felt the pounding pistons working inside me. Streetlights flickered like strobes in a dance club. God damn, I loved driving my old Ford Fairlane! It thundered like rock-and-roll and grooved like jazz.

I hadn’t bothered with the headlights allowing my eyes to feed on the glory of night. Gaseous clouds hung over street lamps, the light splashing cold fires onto tree limbs and the roadway. Twin stripes of irradiated flames marked the recent passing of a car headed around the corner and up the hill. Taillights bathed the trees in red, the blood forest welcoming me home. Pushing on the accelerator, pistons thundering, I raced around the car and into the night beneath a deep-violet sky dotted by embers.

On the passenger side, Laura sat with her head slumped against the side window. Her eyes shut tight she held an expression of fear mixed with rage. She had her hands caught between her clenched thighs.

“Stop your diddling.”

“Shit, Kandy, I’m not touching myself!”

Laura had become my anchor along the shore. If I let go of her, I went adrift in a sea of time. A twisted irony, my strongest hold turned out to be a teen addicted to Itoril venom and its synthetic replicant, vampire ice, along with all the disgusting habits that came with teens.

“Kandy, could you turn on the headlights?” Laura scowled. “I’d at least like to know if we’re about to hit a deer or a person crossing the road.”

The streetlights gave way to the darkness of the woods, the occasional house splashing its lights onto the roadway. The west hills over Roseland were home to well-to-do residents, old cemeteries, wildlife, and my Fairlane howling to the stars.

“Or, you know,” said Laura, “a goddamn driver pulling out onto the road unable to see our car!”

“I think I like you better when you’re masturbating.”

“Up yours, Kandy. Learn to knock.”

Another memory I didn’t share with Laura. Having my anchor with me also illuminated my future. Unfortunately, the predictions were full of useless information or mundane activities I could have guessed.

The Fairlane screamed up the hill, and branches sped by like gnarled fingers scratching at the star-filled violet sky. Cresting the top, I spotted a glowing figure on the roadway. I smashed on the brake pedal and swerved, but it was too late.

Memory creeping out of the shadows, I spotted the woman on the road. It had been the night after the space shuttle had exploded. Ghosts on collision, the Fairlane clipped the woman and sent her body into the air. I watched it happen, as it had happened, all over again, my purgatory pain crying in my head.

I slammed on the brakes, and the tires screeched on the pavement. Laura lunged forward, her hands striking the glove box, her legs floating, and the lap belt held her. The Fairlane came to a stop, and I slipped it into neutral. The engine responded with a throaty growl. I released the throttle letting the engine fall into a rumble.

“Shit, Kandy, are you trying to kill us?”

Looking out the driver’s side window, I found the city lights sparkling down in the valley below. Beyond the passenger side stood the hillside where the dead rested, one of several boneyards in the west hills. This one was the oldest and held a cold corner in my heart.

Up the hill a ways the entrance found me and pulled me inside. I parked beside an old hearse without wheels, hubs on cinder blocks. Darkness blanketed the lot. The shapes of the buildings stood in the fog. Only one shadow I recognized, the old house on the far left. Instead of the paved parking lot, my memory held a dirt drive snaking through the trees up to the house. I cut the engine, and the stillness crept inside carrying the whispers of the dead.

“What the hell?” said Laura. “Why did you bring me to a funeral home?”

“I’m glad I made it here without driving into yesterday.”

Opening the glove box, I retrieved my Colt 1911 pistol and checked the ammunition. Loaded since whenever I had put it there. Laura frowned at the weapon. Realizing I hadn’t worn my shoulder holster, I slipped the gun into my jacket pocket.

Leaving my Fairlane behind, I casually explored the front of the property with Laura at my side. The sidewalk led to three entrances, the first an office door and the second a showroom full of caskets visible behind the large window. Yellow police ribbon criss-crossed over both doors. The third entrance, double-doors to the chapel, was covered in spray-paint graffiti. No light. The lamps had all been broken, shattered glass on the concrete walkway.

Laura held up her phone using its light to read the graffiti.

“Can your phone tell us what happened here?”

“Christ, Kandy, for the third time, it’s google. Yes, I can google that for you.”

Laura tapped her finger on the phone display summoning the help of google-eyed people. Before my fall from the position of Executioner, computers had sat on desks and phones had allowed vocal communication or texts. I had yet to witness Laura using her phone to hold a conversation. Instead, the device was her pocket computer she used to take photos, share pictures, or retrieve information the google-eyed individuals had aggregated.

“Thyme Funeral busted for manufacturing the drug, vampire ice.” Laura continued reading quietly, her eyes growing bigger. “Kandy, these dudes were up to their assholes in Vamp Ice. And I shit you not, the master-mind bad-ass is a woman!”

On the walking path cutting through the woods, I held Laura’s hand. I kept her from tripping over rocks and roots, and she held me against the raging currents of time. It seemed like every few steps the shadows clawed at me, and briefly silence fell over me as I snatched at the ghostly hand of my anchor until I found my way back to the path.

The graveyard hadn’t changed all that much, but recent residents were added to the bottom of the hill. Near the top, the dead of the prior century rested peacefully, unchanged since my early years.

Among the graves, an island of fog rolled into itself, swirling, and a shadow emerged. The figure strolled closer, and I recognized the ethereal face of Peter Gray.

]]>2015-02-05T19:00:13-08:00http://www.kandyfangs.com/stories/venom/nine11Dressed in her nightshirt and wool socks, Nine carried the Thyme Guide to Vampires into the library. On the table a mug contained a moist bag of tea. She found bits of dirt on the leather chair, which seemed odd. She swiped the seat clean and sat down.

On odd sensation crept inside her.

Thumbing through the pages of the guide, she searched for a reference to January Nine. Stopping at the end of the third chapter, she reviewed the final questions Augustus had posed.

Upon consuming enough blood and memory could the vampire become its victim? Or was the consumed knowledge used for some other nefarious purpose?

Her father wasn’t the man she thought she knew. Hunting pseudo-vampire people was a secret worth keeping from her. Sebastian Thyme was still Augustus’s son, though, wasn’t he? The idea that a vampire could disguise himself as, or worse become, her father sent chills splashing from head to shoulders.

Searching the Thyme Tomb so soon after the murder had been a mistake leaving her feeling drained and on the verge of catching ill. Thankfully Xavier had waited outside the gate to help her return home.

Nine continued flipping through the guide. If only Augustus had included an index, her search might be easier. A digital version would make this chore a snap. As she reached near the tail end of the book, she began to realize she’d need to read every page to be certain if January Nine appeared at all.

She slammed the book closed.

Looking at the mug on the table, Nine realized she hadn’t set it there. With her father in a holding cell at the police station, she was all alone at the funeral home. A puddle of tea remained at the bottom of the mug.

Someone had been inside the library.

“ɘniИ?”

She felt silly calling the trickster out. Anyone sneaky enough to cut flowers behind her back and remain hidden in the chapel wasn’t about to jump out and share a laugh.

Nine set the book on the table and hurried out of the library. Down the hall and around the corner, she reached the office and opened the door. The light was on as she had left it.

She crept over to the open door and peeked into the showroom. The caskets remained in their usual positions. Perfect hiding place, though. She recalled as a young girl sneaking inside caskets to spook her grandfather. At the window, she pulled the curtain open and gazed outside.

Beside the hearse, the old classic car Peter had recently inherited from a stranger sat quietly beneath the lamplight.

What was Peter doing here instead of minding the restaurant? The car appeared empty, and no one stood out front. If the bell had rung, she missed it. Had Peter left the mug on the table? Nine at night seemed rather late for a visit.

Nine called out Peter’s name and listened.

As she waited for a reply, she began to recognize that odd sensation. Someone was watching. Besides the caskets, the big desk offered an easy opportunity for any kid playing hide-and-seek. Peter wasn’t the child-play type. ɘniИ, however.

Nine crept around the desk and bent over for a look. Nothing to her relief, and she felt ridiculous for checking. It was the mug out of place that had thrown her off is all.

Peter had to be outside, the graveyard perhaps. Nine went to fetch her coat. The sensation of a watchful eye followed her.

]]>2015-01-29T14:13:52-08:00http://www.kandyfangs.com/stories/venom/thief02“Holy shit, Nine!“ said Peter, holding his hand over his pounding heart. “Were you trying to scare the life out of me?”

The woman shook her head, her dark hair waving over her face.

Catching his breath, Peter folded his arms and studied the nude woman sitting on the mortuary table. It didn’t seem like Nine to go to so much trouble for a practical joke. He had no doubt funerary workers produced off-beat pranks, but not this level of commitment. And unprofessional going against everything he knew about Nine. Hiding in a casket, sure, but stripping all her clothes off and chilling herself to play dead? Madness.

“Aren’t you freezing?” said Peter. He shivered, partly due to the cold room. The distant look on her face frightened him.

She held up her arms. “Peter Gray, come warm me.”

Peter walked over and hugged her. Wrapping her arms and legs around him, burying her face in his chest, she held him tight. His chin touched her cool hair. He rubbed her backside working warmth into her flesh.

“Nine, what’s this all about?”

“Father shot a man and brought him in,” she said. Her voice sounded flat and uncaring. “The man wasn’t dead, so Nine cut his head right off with an amputation saw. Big bloody mess that was.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Peter. He held her tight, but he doubted it would be enough to fight the demons off. Anything that bad took time and care.

“Ever fucked in a mortuary?”

Pressed against him she became difficult to resist, but she wasn’t herself.

“Peter, I know you want it.”

“Not like this, Nine.”

Peter grabbed her legs and pulled himself free of her grip. He stepped back, and she hopped off the table. Her gaze locked on him; hunter stalking prey. She slinked closer in a way he hadn’t ever witnessed before so unlike Nine.

Or Nine on drugs. Worry washed over him as he considered the possibilities.

“Nine, let’s get you dressed and somewhere warm.”

Turning around, he grabbed clothing from the pile on the table. Dirt streaks marked the jeans on the knees and rear. A cloud of dust puffed from the long-sleeve top. It looked as though Nine had been crawling in the dirt recently.

Playfully poking him in the ribs, Nine didn’t seem the least bit interested in her clothes.

Kneeling, Peter held her panties out to her feet. He talked her into lifting one foot after the other. As he pulled the waistband up, he spotted a tattoo on her lower back just above her tailbone. Fangs taking a bite out of her ass. He had assumed she had more tattoos, but inked fangs surprised him. Dressing her felt erotic, and she played along letting him do all the work. As soon as she was dressed, he took her by the arm and pulled her towards the door.

Something caught his eye.

On a tray beside a mortuary table, he found a syringe containing a small amount of a clear liquid. He knew the contents immediately as if someone had whispered the name in his ear. Vampire ice. Along with a car and weapons, he had also inherited bags of Kandy’s blood and a bag of clear serum, a substance Tigris believed to be the basis for the vampire ice. Tigris had tried explaining the properties, but he couldn’t recall the details. Now with the possibility Nine had been dosed, he wished he had paid better attention to his bartender.

Upstairs, the funeral home had a small library and he felt grateful to take her in there instead of the house. Finding a kitchenette, he put the kettle on. Searching the cupboard, he selected a box of bagged tea. Back in the library, he found her sitting on a leather chair, legs curled beneath her. The warmth seemed to have lifted her out of her state as her face became more recognizable.

“Peter, I’m sorry,” she said. She sipped her tea and lowered the cup onto her leg. “After murder I must seem quite mad.”

He knelt by her chair and felt her arm. Warmer, but still cold.

“So your dad took the wrap for whole thing?”

She nodded. “Of course he did.”

Peter agreed to keep her company for an hour. She became more herself, but not quite right. He couldn’t put his finger on it. She spoke differently, but close enough he thought considering her recent traumatic event.

]]>2015-01-22T15:00:08-08:00http://www.kandyfangs.com/stories/venom/thief01Passing the cemetery, Peter Gray took the next turn, a narrow road up a steep incline. Within headlights frost glistened at the edge of the pavement. The road snaked through the woods passing homes on large lots. Spotting the stone sign illuminated by two spotlights on the ground, he pulled into the drive which curved around a grove of tall evergreens emerging into a parking lot at Thyme Funeral Home.

The old Ford Fairlane was beginning to seem like his car. He had inherited the classic from Kandice Knight through an intermediary business run by Steve Reynolds. However, he still felt Kandy all over the interior. Giving her ghost a ride now and then didn’t seem so bad as long as the spirits left the driving to him. He parked his Fairlane beside an old hearse, a Caddy from the sixties if he wasn’t mistaken. Two black classy cars sitting side-by-side, alone, at night. Automobile romance, he thought.

Slipping his phone from his jacket pocket, Peter held it while gazing out at the buildings. On the far left stood an early twentieth-century house with a newer addition jutting out the side. A walkway connected the home to the funeral building which consisted of an office, a showroom, and a chapel, distinct structures, but connected together. The chapel appeared more recently built, or re-built, likely during the seventies or eighties given the boring structural design. The rest of the property held a stylish look with decorative eaves and window shutters matching the house.

Tapping the screen, he selected his messages. He read the brief note Nine had sent yesterday again. She hadn’t made it in for her shift at the restaurant because her father had been arrested. Earlier in the day Peter had called twice to check in, leaving her messages both times. He called her again and disconnected after the third ring.

Feeling bad about dropping in like this, he considered heading back to the restaurant.

Peter had another reason for driving out here though. According to records, his sister had been buried in the graveyard on the hillside. He still couldn’t believe he had imagined seeing Tara in the restaurant. Having conversations with her! He needed to see the grave with his own eyes.

Light illuminated the window beside the office door and another in the big showroom window revealing several caskets inside.

Concerned about business, he called the restaurant. The new bartender, Tigris, answered. Everything running peachy, according to her. Satisfied, he put his phone away, climbed out of the car, and ambled up the walkway to the office door.

Curtains hid the interior.

Peter knocked and listened for movement. Trying the door, he found it unlocked and pushed it open. Barely large enough for three or four visitors, the office appeared cramped with a spacious desk built back in the day when craftsmen worked with real wood. The desk held a decorative lamp and an iPad. Two leather chairs for guests sat to the side, an old filing cabinet stood behind the desk, and an antique chaise consumed a corner. At the back, a closed door held a sign by the handle. Another door stood open leading to the showroom.

“Hello?” said Peter.

Strolling into the showroom, he glanced around at the various caskets of different styles. No coffins, he noted, feeling odd he knew there was such a difference between a casket and a coffin. Nine had taught him that coffins had a single lid. Caskets came with dual lids, one for showing. Directly across the room, double doors blocked the entrance to the chapel.

Back in the office, he went to the door at the back and checked the sign.

“Ring buzzer for service.”

Beside the door, he found the button attached to the wall with a painted wire stapled in place running down into the floor. He pressed the button and heard the muted buzz from somewhere deep within the building.

He listened while he waited. A pop came from the ceiling. Pressing the button again, he listened to the buzz coming from somewhere below.

Someone had to be here, he thought, and grew curious about the number of workers the Thyme family employed. Inattentive employees it seemed, but they likely didn’t get many visitors after dark even in winter when the sun set before five in the evening. Grasping the handle, he opened the door and peeked into a hallway.

Peter called out his greeting.

No response.

The house stood to the left, so he turned right and reached the end of the short hall at the top of the stairs. At first he thought he descended into a basement, but recalling the property sitting on a hillside, and spotting the exterior-looking double doors at the bottom, he realized he had found the lower section down the hill behind the chapel. A hallway stretched from the double doors past a door on either side ending at a wide door with a sign overhead labeled, crematorium. A door on one side was labeled, viewing room. The other door, the mortuary, had to be where the buzzer reached.

Grasping the cool knob sent a shiver up his arm, and he froze. He imagined an employee working with music playing over headphones and hadn’t heard the buzzer. Not wanting to surprise anyone, or walk in to see something disgusting, he knocked loudly.

“Hello? I’m looking for Nine.”

He heard a faint hum coming from inside.

Opening the door, Peter felt cool air rush over him and smelled refrigerant of an old air-conditioning system. Quickly, he stepped inside and closed the door to keep the heat out of the mortuary.

Three stainless steel tables, islands on crisp white tile, ran down the center before a wall with rows of large, square drawers for holding bodies in cold storage. Beside them, an industrial freezer and rows of shelves. The nearest table was empty, the second held a pile of clothing. A body rested on the last.

Peter stood near the door and gazed at the corpse in the back. Pale flesh, a female entirely exposed. Her dark hair fanned out within a bowel-shaped head rest. Young, too, she appeared a teenager or a not much older. Studying the ridge of the corpse’s nose, the cleft in the chin, the curve on those blueish lips.

The corpse held an uncanny resemblance to Nine.

Sneaking closer, Peter felt a pang in his gut as he spotted the edge of the tattoo on her lower arm. He quickened his pace and his shoes screeched on the tile. This close left no doubt.

Nine’s arm felt cool as if she had been recently removed from cold storage. It felt wrong gazing at her nude body. Morticians worked on naked corpses, naturally, but it still felt improper to look upon her body.

Glancing around the room, Peter searched for signs of an employee. Would they just leave a body out unattended? Someone needed to tell him what had happened.

Which, if foul play, they’d still have the body at police morgue. A day was too soon to go from illness to the morgue.

Nothing made sense.

Bending over, Peter took a closer look. Perfectly still, not a breath she took.

“Nine,” said Peter.

She opened her eyes.

Leaping back, Peter skidded on the tile, heart thumping and head rushing. Catching hold of the other table, he managed to remain standing.

Sitting up like the dead reawakening, she gazed at him. No laughter, not even a smile for the cruel joke. She just sat there, legs over the edge of the table, her hands at her sides. When she spoke, her voice sounded hollow.

“Hello, Peter Gray.”

]]>2015-01-15T21:00:41-08:00http://www.kandyfangs.com/stories/venom/nine10Thyme, a word derived from the Greek, thymus, stood for courage. Until finding the Chinese symbol for courage on the coffin, Nine hadn’t considered the family having Chinese origins. She had chosen her tattoo with Chinese symbols because it looked cool, but she began to realize there had been more—whispers from ancestors in her blood—behind her decision on her sixteenth birthday. In the nineteenth century, Chinese immigrants had arrived to help build the railroad, so a culture clash between European and Chinese ancestry was probable. Nine considered perhaps Vampire Thyme wasn’t as old as Augustus had believed unless Xavier and his boss, Yasmine, were mistaken.

Or Vampire Thyme had taken to resting here in his later years. Did vampires actually sleep in coffins? It seemed silly. More reasonable to expect family secrets or a fallen offspring within the coffin.

Nine shivered, and her stomach twisted into knots.

She recalled the blood splattering her face shield as she sawed away at the neck of the Itoril held by his skull on the mortuary table. Yesterday she had murdered, and tonight she invaded a forgotten ancestral tomb. Whatever happened to simple evenings of painting the faces on corpses? Now she wished she had gone to work at Peter’s restaurant. Recently Peter had dealt with a late-night robbery, minor excitement compared to her week full of murder and pompous Itorils.

For a quick photo of the etching, Nine crept over to the foot of the coffin. As she stepped beside the wall, her shoe caught something, and she felt it depress into the stone beneath her toe.

A click, and the wall beside her moved, grumbling loudly, descending into the floor. Swinging her phone around, she aimed the light into a passageway meeting stone stairs leading upwards into darkness.

“Holy shit,” said Nine.

Her voice surprising her, she clamped her hand over her mouth.

Curiosity pulled her into the passageway, and she climbed the narrow stairs. At the top, she found another chamber. Two sarcophagi, one on each side, sat against the walls. Ahead, a narrow window revealed the graveyard along the woods lit by a lamp over the walking path.

The family sepulcher.

Nine stepped inside, and the floor rumbled. Spinning around, she splashed the light at the wall rising up from the floor and thumping against the ceiling hiding the passageway.

“Gotta be kidding me.”

Dabbing her toe at the floor, she searched for a button that might trigger the secret door. Nothing. Moving the light around, she examined the empty walls.

Her phone display flashed the low battery warning.

No signal within the heavy stone structure; no calling for help before the battery died.

At the window, she took in the slow-motion melting glass over the bottom ledge and examined the top, glass so thin it barely clung to the frame. Knocking out the window and wriggling out appeared a possibility as a last resort. She spotted the markings in the dust, her name written backward on the inside. At least now she knew the trickster had a way in and out down the stairs through the old tomb.

Turning back to the secret door, she examined the wall between the two sarcophagi. With the light held close to the wall, she could make out the edges of the secret exit. Standing before the door, she began tapping the floor with her toes. If this door was anything like downstairs, the pressure stone should be off to the side. She dabbed at the floor in one direction and then tapped her way in the other.

The bare walls didn’t offer any clues.

Shining the light at the base of one sarcophagus, at a bronze plaque set into the stone, she learned the name of one of her mysterious ancestors: Mathilda Thyme. On the topic of the secret exit, the base remained as silent as the walls.

Reading the plaque beneath the other box, Nine froze.

January Nine

She had never been told she had been named for an ancestor, stranger still, a woman with a date for a name. So odd and so connected, she felt a strong desire to look inside the stone coffin.

Nine turned off the flashlight and slipped her phone into her pocket. Stepping to the end she hoped was the head, she squatted. With both hands, she gripped the lid and pushed the hefty top. Dry air puffed out the crack. Grumbling against the friction, the lid came to a stop leaving a foot-wide gap.

She pulled her phone out, tapped the flashlight icon, and aimed the light inside.

Empty. Clean, too, as if never occupied.

The phone flashlight went out, and the murky glow from the narrow window cast the sepulcher in a gloom.

“Naturally,” said Nine, referring to the empty resting place. The strange name had to be an answer to a riddle, but what was the question? It didn’t make much sense leaving a clue on an empty sarcophagus inside a sepulcher unless the location was part of the riddle.

Reaching into the box, she began feeling around the smooth surface searching for a button or lever that might open the door. Stretching deeper, she wriggled into the narrow opening. Smooth as a tub and free of dust, nothing hid within the sarcophagus.

Her stomach tumbled over, insides lurched, and she felt nauseous. Scrambling, she pulled herself out and took in a gulp of air. Sitting on the edge of the box, she held her head in her hands and waited for her stomach to settle.

Images of the Itoril man, his head locked in a vice on the mortuary table and clawing at her, came slamming into the forefront of her mind. She watched it again, cutting furiously into the Itoril’s neck, the blood splattering over her vision.

Gut rumbling, hot liquid charged up and stung her throat. She swallowed the burning back down.

Trying to expel the horror away, Nine focused on her immediate problem. Somehow, ɘniИ had found her way out and pulled that prank cutting all the flowers in the chapel. The prankster was out there somewhere now, but who was ɘniИ? The sepulcher and the tomb below appeared barely touched ruling out a resident or frequent visitor.

Standing, Nine felt a click beneath her heel, and the room rumbled. In the dim light she could barely make out the wall opening up at the top of the stairs. Peering down into the shadows beside her feet, she wiggled her foot around feeling the indentation in the floor up against the pedestal, an unlikely place to step.

Nine tasted blood.

She licked her finger. Holding her hand up to the light, she found nothing, but the taste remained. She shook her head in disgust at memories messing with her mind.

Arms outstretched, she felt her way into the narrow opening and down the stairs. Spotting light seeping in from the gate, she scurried for the exit eager to get home and into the bathtub. Legs weakening, she slumped against the wall. The air grew heavy. Her head floated.

]]>2015-01-09T06:00:14-08:00http://www.kandyfangs.com/stories/venom/nine09The images on the vampmobile’s high-resolution window displays revealed a video of the road heading out of Roseland on the way home, but the shifting weight didn’t quite match the view.

“You’re not taking me home, are you, Miss Yasmine-with-a-wy?”

A tap on the tablet, and the screen cast a pale blue glow onto Yasmine’s face revealing her pleasant expression. A quick glance, the male went back to looking at the view that appeared to be the highway heading through tall evergreens illuminated by lamplights.

Yasmine swiped her finger on the tablet screen, and the images on the false-windows changed to dark stone walls supported by white columns zipping by. The car drove through a narrow tunnel.

“I truly hate commute traffic,” said Yasmine. She swiped her finger on the tablet, and the windows reverted back to the wooded scene. “Trees are prettier. Don’t you think?”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Home, sweetie, but first I’d like to show you something as a sign of good faith.”

“For what exactly?”

“I’d like to invest in Thyme with money and equipment, resources to help improve and expand your harvesting. The tiny amount you procure with those antiquated needles simply won’t do.”

“Wait,” said Nine, “what do you even want with venom?”

“Xavier, dear, isn’t Miss Thyme just the most adorable little thing ever? The ignorance of their kind never ceases to amaze me.”

“Drugs,” said Nine, speaking in defense of her species. “You’re talking about a drug business, but why don’t you get it yourselves? Why do you need my funeral home?”

As she heard her own words, she realized she had stumbled. She winced.

“The penis thing,” said Nine. “You need a human front else you’d all be swinging your dicks at each other. Or teeth, I guess.”

The limousine stopped at a wide spot in the corner switchback of a narrow road snaking up a hill through the forest. Located along the western edge of the graveyard, the street looped above the main road providing access to seven homes nestled in the woods.

“Xavier here will show you my gift,” said Yasmine. She turned off the tablet, and darkness filled the car. Her iridescent eyes narrowed. “Then take your time considering my offer. Enjoy a bubble bath. Pleasure yourself if that helps. I want you give this careful consideration before we speak again.”

The door opened, panel lights illuminating the pavement and the trees off the edge of the road. Somehow the false view within the tunnel had merged seamlessly with the true view outside the car somewhere back on the road. Nine couldn’t imagine the equipment necessary, but it seemed an extravagant trick.

Xavier led the way onto an unmarked hiking trail. His dark clothing made him difficult to follow in the woods. Nine pulled out her phone and selected the flashlight.

Climb turning steep, Nine used her free hand to hold onto a rock and crawl up. Spotting Xavier’s outstretched arm, she hesitantly took hold of his hand.

“You don’t remember me do you young miss?”

Xavier with his wavy hair could have passed for a rockstar during her father’s younger years, and she thought she should remember something like that. A familiarity coursed through his hand and into hers, but she couldn’t place the male Itoril.

“Your sixteenth birth anniversary, I believe.”

A tug, Xavier lifted Nine off her feet like she was weightless, carried her by the arm around him, and set her down on top of the incline.

“Augustus had been searching for this tomb for some years,” said Xavier.

Waving the light, Nine looked over the stone structure half-buried in silt with two trees growing out of the top. It reminded her of a burial mound, but this tomb had been submerged by the passage of time, erosion bringing the hillside down around it. By her estimation the tomb had to be located just beneath the graveyard proper nearest the funeral home. The entrance in the center was blocked by a rusted iron gate and moss-covered rocks on the ground. Her light shone inside revealing rubble and a narrow hall receding into the darkness.

Nine gasped in disbelief. The first Thyme had to be several generations older than the family funeral home. Had her grandfather’s grandfather built the funeral home on land owned by the family since prior generations? She hadn’t realized the Thyme’s influence in Roseland had begun so long ago.

Noticing the broken lock, she pulled on the gate. Screeching against hinges, the gate opened and knocked against a rock. The opening appeared barely wide enough for a slender person to squeeze inside. Best to return in daylight with safety gear, but a quick look inside would help decide what to bring.

Squeezing between the gate and stone made her wish she hadn’t treated herself with a bag of late-night munchies. Noticing Xavier getting an eyeful of her boobs squished against the bars, she poked her tongue out at him. He grinned like the devil and turned his gaze away. The Itoril man’s broad torso prevented him from entering, so she was on her own, and that was more than fine. She didn’t need venomous fangs hovering over her within a creepy old burial chamber.

After the rubble at the entrance, the stone floor was clear of debris. The passage led deeper than she had imagined. The tomb had been built into the earth after all. Reaching a chamber, she stopped and waved her light around. At the back stood a copper and black iron coffin with a silver etched inlay on the lid, the Chinese symbol for courage.

]]>2015-01-01T13:00:10-08:00http://www.kandyfangs.com/stories/venom/nine08It was after dark by the time Nine exited the Roseland Police Department in downtown. She had spent the entire day answering questions, or at least it felt like the entire day. Most of the morning she had spent in a waiting room. Her shift at the restaurant started in twenty minutes, and she still needed to ride the bus home to fetch her work clothes.

Did she even want to work tonight? Talking things over with Peter sounded nice, but solitude called her home. Tapping on her phone, she sent Peter a message asking for the night off.

The police had questioned her about the murder. Their only suspect in custody, they had asked about the decapitated body and its missing head. She had held it together throughout the questioning, and the investigator’s cluelessness had made it easier for her to lie.

Now, she felt like hurling. Her stomach did one of those twisting-tumbling things, but nothing came up. Her knees weakened, but she trudged on trying to think about Peter with his warm smile.

At the crowded sidewalk, she rose up on her toes searching for the bus stop.

A black limousine stopped at the curb beside her. As she began to make her way, the door popped open and the driver climbed out.

“Miss Thyme?” said the driver.

Freezing in place, she gave the driver a bewildered look and watched him stroll to the back of the car. He opened the door. Did he expect her to climb into that thing?

The car behind honked.

“Miss Thyme,” said the driver. He tipped his cap. “I’ll take you wherever you need to go.”

“I don’t know what your game is,” said Nine, “but I’m not in the mood. Besides, my grandfather taught me never to climb into cars with strange men.”

From within the darkness, a hand with pink polished nails emerged, beckoning.

Nine had a bad feeling this woman had come on account of the murder. This sort of business shouldn’t wait, and the empty leather seat at the back offered rest for her weak stomach. She told the driver she wanted to go home. Ducking down she crawled onto the seat.

The door closed, and the interior grew freakishly dark. The windows hardly let any light in at all, but somehow she could see out the tinted glass well enough. As her eyes adjusted, she found the woman sitting opposite her, or rather she found shaded figure. The car moved passing a streetlamp, but the interior remained curiously dark.

Light exploded illuminating the front of the woman. She wore a suit including slender necktie. Her blonde hair was held up in a loose bun by pointy hair sticks. A business lady, and pretty enough to have passed as runway model in her younger years. The glow came from the screen of a tablet computer resting on a table folded out from the side of the car.

Within the light, Nine found another occupant sitting beside the woman. A handsome man with raven hair, long and wavy. He gazed out the window beside him.

“Miss Nine Thyme,” said the woman, tasting the words. “I like the sound of that. Little bells tinkling as one speaks. Nine Thyme.”

“I always thought my parents were weird naming me a number.”

“I like numbers. I can manage great things with numbers.”

Nine began feeling uncomfortable with the way the woman spoke, superior, and somehow reminded her of a serpent.

“You may call me, Yasmine. That’s with a wy, because my silly mother couldn’t say it right with a jay. She was from the south, and everyone mispronounced everything down there. I swear I can’t understand half the things Southerners say.”

Nine tried on a polite grin.

“For years now, Thyme Funeral and Stratton Enterprises have enjoyed a cooperative relationship, one that I wish to continue.”

Turning a corner, weight shifting in the car, Nine felt disoriented. The timing of the lean didn’t match the changing view making her stomach tumble until the car straightened out.

“Since you’re the new head of Thyme,” said Yasmine, “I’d like to offer you my support in ensuring your success.”

“Is this about my father?”

Pushing the tablet computer aside, Yasmine set her hands on the table and leaned closer. Slowly licking her upper lip, the woman revealed her fangs: dangerous compared to Lamia’s tiny teeth.

“To the point then,” said Yasmine. Her blue eyes roving, she studied Nine from head to toe and top again. “I’d appreciate it if you could keep your employees in line and out of my hair.”

“He shouldn’t have murdered that Itoril man.” It wasn’t a lie exactly. Her father had intended to kill.

“That I don’t mind, sweetie. I have no issue with you little persons managing to kill one of our big and nasties. I say good for you.” She nodded. “Well done.”

The slow, condescending speech made Nine feel like she represented the human species.

“Sebastian Thyme has killed before,” said Yasmine. Sitting back, she folded her arms. “I admire his skill and perseverance.”

Hearing her father had made murder a habit surprised her.

“You’re new and cute as a button, so let me explain.” Yasmine licked her lip, mouth wide revealing more of her impressive teeth. “Fangs and venom in our world are sort of like men and their penises in your world. Not really, but so you understand. Those of us with venom rule the shit out of those without.”

Nine closed her eyes as she mentally scolded her father with an I-told-you-so look. He had known, though, hadn’t he? He had killed them before, but more importantly, Sebastian was a Thyme.

“Taking our venom, or worse our fangs, is more than a tad disrespectful.”

“We extract venom from the dead to send back to you!” said Nine, clamping her mouth shut before uttering anything about Vampire Thyme and his quota.

Raising a hand, Yasmine pointed her finger in the air. “Only when our cleaner sends you a body for disposal do you harvest for us. That’s our agreement.”

The tablet screen went out, and darkness consumed the interior of the car.

Looking at the windows, at the lack of light penetrating inside, Nine realized the view was a generated image. The windows weren’t windows at all, but digital screens. As long as the doors remained closed, no sunlight would pierce inside this vampmobile.

Yasmine’s eyes creeped out of the darkness like glow-in-the-dark dust with flickering red embers at the very center of her pupils producing a chromatic dazzle through the wispy shapes within her irises, beautiful and eerie. The other occupant’s eyes did the same only his orbs darker. Nine had seen Itoril orbs flicker before, but never with Hell’s rage.

A lump in her throat, Nine swallowed. The Thyme’s had attracted the attention of someone important, a venomous Itoril ruler taking time out of her busy day to chat and offer her—a nobody—a ride home.

She studied the window screens, paying close attention to the shifting weight of the car out of sync with the view, and began to doubt she was heading home at all.

The thunderous beat, stomping feet, wiggle the wood floor rattling lights. The blue-haired vocalist screams about love and pain while the band thrashes about working their instruments into furious fits. Before the stage, the human sea writhes into a torrent, arms waving glowing bracelets, bodies splashing together, bounding and swaying in currents. Piercing through the heavy fog, red spotlights splash the crowd like blood raining inside Club Necropolis.

On the pedestal beside the band stage, Kandy grooves to the music. She snuggles close to the backside of the lovely Zypher. Arms in the air, hips swirling, they move as one. The waving currents flow around their feet, a cloud of orange-red body heat, except for a nearby bouncer dressed black, a dim red simmer, the only other Itoril in the club. Seeing all the pairs of beady orbs, it seems nearly half the guests wear special lenses glowing in the black light. The wannabes gather around the pedestal, and Kandy snarls showing them true fangs.

Someone watches her. Glancing over, she spots a pale form slinking into the dark sea. Turning with her partner, Kandy loses sight of him behind a fan of blonde hair. Cold rushes down her backside. She steps into shadowy folds of time.

Music fades into the background. The fan of hair slows into wispy haze, nearly transparent. The crowd dissolves, apparitions dancing in slow motion within the silence.

Stepping around a nearly frozen Zypher, Kandy gazes over the sea of ghosts. The pull of time draws her back, and the world becomes more tangible. Searching frozen faces caught within the constant beat, she finds nothing unusual. Taking her partner, she falls back into the dance of life. Sounds explode, stomping feet, music, working into the pedestal, into her legs.

Kandy dances into a storm, and Zypher follows pressing in tight, their black lace waving about them. They wriggle together like dark fire. Slipping from hard cries into angelic hymn, the vocalist tells her tale about dancing with the dead.

Falling into a gentle swirl, she latches onto Zypher, cheeks pressed together. She whispers her heart’s hungry desire. Hands sliding down over her partner’s hips, she grasps the bottom of the skirt and lifts. Hearing the roar of delight from the men gathered around the pedestal, she laughs.

Slithering down into a squat, Kandy grasps Zypher’s warm thighs. She spots the nude-colored tape hiding the blood pack. Baring her teeth for the audience, she glances around finding ecstatic faces. Cold sparks rush up her spine. Something is out there. Not human. Not Itoril. Something cold watches her. She dives in biting the pack squirting red syrup running in rivers down creamy legs.

Zypher shrieks for the performance.

Unsatisfied, Kandy lifts the blonde up and slams her down onto the pedestal. Crouched over, she bites into thigh, tasting blood slithering about her tongue. The woman’s scream a treat to her ears. Peering up over the trembling leg, she spots a familiar buzz of hair and chiseled chin, a face from the dead.

Dressed in a light-colored shirt, the man glows like a beacon in the dark sea. Reaching out, he claws at the pedestal, pulling himself to shore. Leaking from his cruel eyes, violet smoking wisps curl up over buzzed hair.

Waves of cold splash inside, and she shudders. A single thought rises from the abyss: run.

Lunging into the shadows of time, Kandy leaps over the nearly frozen apparition of Zypher and onto the dance floor. Hands latch onto hers, pulling her into a spin, twirling through insubstantial dancers, warm waves splash against her. Never having gone this far, she cringes at each ghost passing through her leaving a wake of hot prickles on her flesh.

Spinning and gliding through the hazy cloud of ghosts, they dance to the frozen silence. Gazing at the cold expressionless face, the violet smoke pouring from dark eye sockets, she looks at the wraith. As he turns, leaving a trail of smoking bits, he tugs her deeper in, and time pulls at her sending them into a lumbering dance.

Watching creeping shadows eat at the floor, she claws at the arms holding her trying to break free. As the abyss closes in, she reverses her fight.

Meeting the rhythm, Kandy dances with the dead. Turning with her lead, she adds her own groove complimenting his steps. Time rips at her, but she dances through the shadows between worlds beneath a storm of lavender and azure clouds. As her insides begin to tear apart, she breaks the beat rushing into time.

Music slams into her, perspiration and leather attack her nose, and a person knocks her spinning sideways. Pushing against bodies, she stumbles through the crowd. She punches a man square in the face and escapes the dance floor. Spinning around, back against stone wall, she scans the club.

Glowing bracelets wave above the waving currents of the human sea, but nothing unusual stirs within. She imagines the wraith lurks deep within time or somewhere between this world and another.

Finding the rhythm, Kandy walks to the beat of life, up the steel stairs and out the door into the crisp night air leaving Club Necropolis behind.

]]>2014-12-15T21:00:39-08:00http://www.kandyfangs.com/stories/venom/nine07b“He’s not dead,” said Nine. Hearing her own voice made it more real.

Gasping, the Itoril man lurched. The vice held his head down. Reaching out, he clawed at Nine’s smock.

Twisting, Nine elbowed the arm aside, saw blade scraping her attacker’s face. Pushed sideways, she leaned the other way trying to stay on her feet. Growling, the man tried sitting up as he reached for her. Sebastian grasped the other arm and leaned his weight down on the torso. Turning sideways, Nine tried to break free, but the grip on her shirt pulled her back.

The saw flailed biting her father’s arm. As she jerked the weapon back, the Itoril yanked her closer, his fangs slashing her hand. She cried out at the pain, and pulled her hand away.

No escape, the strength of the Itoril was too much pulling her down closer. There was nothing else she could think to do, but kill.

Gripping tight, Nine drove the blade down against the throat and began sawing. The grip continued pulling her down into an uncomfortable position. The top of the saw smashed her face shield against her chin. Thrashing, she worked the saw as fast as she could.

Blood splattered against her face mask, and the man’s growling cut out leaving the sound of ripping flesh. The body spasmed and fell still. A quick pull on the saw, and she felt blood spraying against her front, draining down her neck and beneath her shirt. So much blood on her mask, she could barely see. As the blade lurched against bone, she thrashed even faster, and the neck snapped, saw teeth screeching against the steel table.

A droning sound filled her ears.

Flipping up the mask cleared her vision, and she found the head held up in her father’s gloved hands with the gore facing her. Frozen, she gazed dazedly at the cut spine, the throat, and the layers of tissue around the opening.

Looking at her left hand, she found blood smeared over ripped latex. Only a pair of cuts, but they stung fiercely.

Her father’s voice, muffled, distant words she couldn’t make any sense of. Holding the skull out to her, he wanted her to do something. The next step, she thought. He wanted her to perform the extraction.

Realizing she still gripped the saw, Nine set the tool on the floor. Turning to the tray on the side of the table, she picked the syringe up and stared at it uncertain what to do. She detected the voice of her father shouting at her, but couldn’t make sense of his words.

She held out the syringe. Sebastian released hold, and the head fell over cheek-first onto the table. There was so much blood now, crimson filled the table, the drain track at the edge slowly gulping it away into the canister beneath the table.

Her father snatched the syringe away. “Hold it for me,” he said.

Dazed, she ran on automatic just like her first time, a teenage girl new to cleaning out a body cavity. Disgusting things most teenage girls never witnessed. Like that first day, she followed commands, her mind only half processing the sights and smells. Only now it wasn’t the gore, the chemical stench, or even body parts.

She had murdered a man, and now she held the decapitated head up so her father could poke a needle through the front of the throat going deep into the skull. An accomplice to murder was one thing, but tonight she had killed. She had become like one of those creepy guys at the park parents tell their children to avoid.

Bent over with his eye on the target, Sebastian slowly worked the syringe. A clear liquid entered the tube. There wasn’t much.

“You can’t think of them as people,” he said.

Nine had always considered Lamia a friend. A person. That’s what her grandfather had taught her. Itoril were different, but they were persons, too.

All that blood, though. The man full of gunshot wounds had lost considerable blood. How could a person, even an Itoril person, wake up from that? A chiang-shih seemed more probable.

As Sebastian pulled the needle out Nine released hold of the skull and wrenched her blood-stained smock off. Looking down, she found her shirt covered in blood, too. Wiping her hair back over her ear, she felt moisture. Red on her fingers.

Murder was in her hair!

Nine scrambled for the emergency shower. Pulling her shirt off, she tossed the blood-stained rag into the bin. She pulled the chain and bent over placing her head into the stream. Cold water rained down over her shoulders and head, streaming from the long strands of her hair rinsing blood into the drain. She stood bent over watching water turn clear then wiped her face.

Standing, she reached up and pulled the chain shutting the water off. Dripping wet, she turned to face her father.

Holding a test tube containing the extracted venom, he watched her with a concerned look on his face.

She scowled at him for getting her into this mess.

“We’re still short for the year,” said Sebastian. He waved the small test tube showing her its contents, not much more than a puddle and a meniscus. Opening the freezer door, he placed the stoppered test tube of venom inside.

“Fuck you, Daddy,” said Nine. It was the first time she had ever spoken the f-word, and it felt good. Her grandfather would threaten her with his belt had he heard, and she would have taken a lashing with a smile.

Shocked, Sebastian quietly gazed at her as he leaned a hand against the freezer door. After a moment, he huffed.

“Nine, if we don’t collect more, he’ll come for us.”

Opening her mouth to argue, it suddenly struck her. She recalled her sixteenth birthday, the day her grandfather had told her his story about how Sebastian had been taken as a child and later returned.

“Vampire Thyme,” said Nine. Until now she hadn’t known the details of the agreement Augustus had made so long ago. What did a vampire need with venom?

“And I’m certain he has little use for an old man like me.”

“Fuck!” The word had already become a habit it seemed, and she bit her lip. She shook her head. “I need to think!”

Nine marched away leaving her father to take care of the cremation. She stomped up the stairs letting her father know of her anger. The Thyme family business had expanded, adding murder made the list of funeral services more than complete. And complicated. She dared not think about what might happen when the Itoril people found out the Thyme family had murdered their kind for venom.

There wasn’t much time for thinking, though. As Nine marched by the office and glanced inside, she spotted cars out the window. The police had arrived.

As Nine ended the call with Diego, she heard the beeping alert from his ambulance in reverse. She pulled her smock open and slipped her phone into her jeans pocket. While removing her latex gloves, she looked over her work. The bruises increased challenge painting the face to return the appearance of life. A little more effort on the cheeks and the middle-aged man would be ready for his sharp suit his wife had brought in. Lifting the paper sheet, Nine snuck another peek of the toned abdomen—wrecked by her suture—nearly hairless all the way down. Just enough fuzz to give it some character, she thought.

Nine removed her smock and exited the mortuary. Heading down the hall she heard muffled voices from the other side of the receiving doors. Diego normally arrived alone with his special deliveries, and she had never thought to ask about a partner.

Opening the doors, she found the EMT waiting with the stretcher. She looked at her father in bewilderment.

“What took you so long?” said Sebastian, frowning.

Grabbing hold of the stretcher, her father pushed. Nine leaped out of the way as he wheeled the corpse into the hall.

“Hey,” said Diego, “I didn’t realize you had a tattoo.”

Holding out her arm with her palm up, Nine showed him the Chinese characters. “I usually wear long sleeves for work. Cold in the mortuary, you know.”

Sebastian opened the mortuary door. Walking backward, he pulled the corpse inside.

“Looks cool,” said Diego. “What’s it say?”

“Chiang-shih. Like a vampire, but created after a violent death and the only way to ensure its demise is through cremation.”

He made a sour face and shook his head. “I guess it suits you.”

Nine thumbed over her shoulder. “Did he meet you outside?”

“A ride-along,” said the EMT.

Rolling into the hallway, the stretcher banged against the wall. The mortuary door slammed shut.

Nine rolled her eyes, and strolled over to the door. The knob refused her.

“Open the door,” she said. Locking the door wasn’t like him, and she became worried.

“Listen,” said Diego, “I’ll forfeit my share this round.”

“No Diego, I’ll get yours to you. You’ve been more than fair. Just tell me what my father was doing riding with you.”

“Since you’re the boss here now, I wouldn’t want to keep secrets. However, I’d rather not say anything that might come back to bite me in the ass.”

“Oh God,” said Nine. She shook her head. Whatever it was, she could deal with it. “Don’t tell me then. I’ll call you later, Diego.”

Arms folded, Nine waited quietly as Diego pulled his stretcher outside. Once the receiving doors were closed, she returned to the mortuary door and pounded her fist on it.

She listened to her father rummaging about.

“I’ll go fetch the key then,” said Nine.

Footsteps approached. Lock clicked, and the door swung open.

“You’re the head cheese,” said Sebastian. Holding the door open, he stood looking glum. “I guess it’s time you learned.”

After donning her smock and latex gloves, Nine approached the stainless steel mortuary table holding the special delivery. Blood soaked the purple dress shirt, and the usual dark spot marked the crotch and partway down one leg of the black slacks. The body didn’t smell bad, though. Persons often shit themselves at death. Spotting the fangs within the open mouth, Nine realized this corpse was an Itoril person.

For a better look, Nine pushed the upper lip with her finger. The fangs were impressive—in appearance and length. By comparison, Lamia’s fangs were harmless nubbins. Pretty blue eyes, too. This handsome devil could have passed among the elite of Itoril people.

By her count, fourteen gunshot wounds dotted the torso. The shooter had reloaded and continued blasting away at the poor guy. The more powerful Itoril could handle a few wounds, but damn, she thought, someone had wanted this sucker dead.

Sebastian held out a plastic face shield. Nine took it and placed the halo cap over her head, clear mask raised.

“Shouldn’t that one be prepared by now?” said Sebastian, thumbing at the other table.

She took a long look at the muscular corpse scheduled for a showing in the morning. It was a cruel world to let handsome men die in their prime.

“Oh, I see,” said Sebastian.

Scowling, Nine said, “As if! You always take your time with the pretty ladies.”

Before the glare hit her, Nine regretted speaking her thought. Prettying up a corpse for showing meant getting intimate with cold flesh, hiding scars and stitches, fixing misshapen appendages, and dressing the dead like a doll. Mortuary work was an art, and Sebastian Thyme transformed the dead into angels.

“One thing to keep in mind,” said Sebastian. He set an empty syringe prepared with a long needle on a tray beside the table. In his other hand he held an amputation saw. ”The fresher, the better. Don’t forget that.”

Blood pooled underneath the body, oozing into the drain track at the edge of the table. This Itoril appeared so fresh Diego had to have been near the crime scene when the shooting had happened.

“A ride-a-long my butt,” said Nine. “Did you shoot this person?”

Sebastian held the saw handle-side out over the table.

“Well, did you kill him?”

“Damn it, Nine!” Sebastian slammed the amputation saw on the corpse’s abdomen. “If you and Lamia hadn’t screwed up that last one. Whenever those uptight leaders of their half-secret society deliver a venomous prick, we harvest the juice and send it back to them.”

Venomous Itoril with their impressive fangs were rare. According to her grandfather’s research, venom could pacify a victim or induce hallucinations. Interest in the potent juice fueled greed and fed crime. As far as Nine was concerned, the body and all its fluids should be disposed of, but business arrangements dictated otherwise.

“So, we missed one,” said Nine. “They’ll understand.”

Leaning his hands on the edge of the table, her father hunched over and lowered his head.

“No, Nine,” said Sebastian. He grimaced and shook his head slowly. “They don’t concern me. His quota does.”

Nine didn’t understand. If not with the organization they had the disposal arrangement with, then what quota? Her father was hiding something from her, and she didn’t like that one bit. After this extraction, she intended to pull rank to obtain this crucial business information.

“Let’s hurry before it sours,” said her father. Lifting the saw, he held it out.

Taking the amputation saw, she raised it away from the table as she was taught. The amputation saw worked much like a hacksaw including replaceable blade, but made entirely of stainless steel for simple cleaning. She didn’t want the sharp teeth snatching at any living arms in the work area. She lowered her face shield.

Sebastian placed his hand under the corpse’s neck, the other on the chin, and lifted tilting head back exposing the neck. He positioned a block vice around the head and secured it to the table. Turning the crank squeezed cups against the skull holding it firm. He flipped his face shield down and placed his hands at his sides.

“Close under the chin, if you will,” he said.

Nine had only operated the bone saw once before, and she was uncertain how to go about cutting a throat. Decapitating a corpse was frowned upon with most funeral services. Such ruthless disrespect went against everything she had learned. Things were so much easier when Diego delivered them decapitated.

Blood filled the drain track and seeped into the opening at the low end.

She still couldn’t believe her father had shot an Itoril man out there on the street somewhere, and had enough nerves to reload and finish the job. She felt as though she didn’t truly know the man.

“Nine, don’t puss out on me now,“ said Sebastian.

All hands free of the work area, she lowered the blade over the neck lining up the teeth above the laryngeal prominence for the cut.

The torso rose and fell.

Nine watched the blood-stained shirt. No movement. Imagining things, she thought, an excuse to puss out. She took a deep breath and held it.

After sunset, Nine Thyme stood outside the family mausoleum. A plaque for Augustus Thyme, presumed dead, was mounted beside the stone walkway outside of the tomb of his father’s sister and her mother, the first resident of the graveyard on the hill. Boneyard, as they said back in her day.

The boneyard was home to several of Nine’s childhood companions. As she grew older, gradually they had abandoned her. According to her father, they had been imaginary friends. Nine preferred another explanation: childhood innocence saw ghosts of our past. She had only met a handful of the boneyard’s residents, none among the Thyme family.

Not until recently.

The marking she had made on the window of the sepulcher had faded away, but the response remained. Like a finger swiping dust on the inside of the glass, the message spelled her name and included a smudge.

NINE ﹅

Had the name—or the number, she thought—been there all along?

Breathing on the glass, she fogged the window. Using her finger, she smudged her name backward like before so the inhabitants could read it.

NINE ﹅ƎИIИ

Waiting for a response, she considered writing a new message. Hello wouldn’t do. She watched the fading fog erase her backward name.
In the retreating daylight, Nine took the narrow dirt path through the trees and into the backyard behind the house. An early service meant she needed to decorate the chapel tonight. She hiked along the side of the funeral home taking the drive along the woods around the chapel to the front of the property. Only a single car in the lot, her grandfather’s 1968 Cadillac hearse, now hers by inheritance.

Inside the office, she grabbed a hefty basket crowded with white carnations from the desk and turned out the light. Leaving through the other door, she entered the showroom full of caskets on display. Crossing the showroom, she heard a noise from the office. Stopping before the doors to the chapel, she glanced behind and listened.

Must have been the building settling, she thought.

She opened the door, taking the side entrance into the chapel, and pulled the door closed.

Dusk fell through the stained glass windows casting a dull, blue glow over the nave. Nine flipped the nearest switch on the set to conserve electricity. Two sconces softly illuminated the front of the nave leaving the main doors at the back in blue shadow. Two flower pedestals and vases waited along the wall.

The most requested flowers at Thyme Funeral Home were lilies followed by chrysanthemums. After that, it was a toss-up between roses and carnations. White carnations represented innocence, and Gladys DeWalt had stressed the importance of white carnations for her daughter’s funeral. Thyme had been ordering from the same flower shop for decades due to their excellent service. These carnations looked perfect and smelled wonderful.

Setting the basket down, Nine reached for a flower pedestal and positioned it on one side. She set the remaining pedestal on the other side surrounding where the casket would go. After setting the vases on the pedestals, she counted out carnations and arranged a dozen in each vase.

Taking the basket, she slung it under her arm and strolled into the alley stopping at the first row. She slipped the stem into the clip fastening the flower to the end of the bench. She did the same on the opposite side. Taking a step towards the second row, the floor groaned beneath her feet. She fastened two more carnations in place, and continued making her way down the alley. After the last, she still held a half-dozen carnations to adorn the casket.

The floor groaned behind her.

Spinning around, Nine gazed in wonder at the carnations on the floor of the alley. Low probability for all the flowers to come loose falling behind her, unless her father had set about improving the fasteners. He was good with working on a corpse, but terrible with building maintenance. He always meant well, though.

She scooped up the nearest flower, slipped the stem inside the clip, and gave it a good wiggle with her finger. The fastener held the white carnation in place. Working her way back up the alley, and keeping a watchful eye behind her for falling flowers, she positioned each carnation back in place.

Between the first and second row, the floor groaned beneath her feet. Pausing, she lifted her foot, hearing a quiet squeak, and pressed her weight down. The floor groaned and snapped. Until more funds became available, the creaky floor would have to do. It wasn’t so bad, really.

Looking back, Nine surveyed the carnations standing at the ends of the benches meeting her satisfaction.

After repositioning the final two flowers, she set the basket of remaining carnations down beside one of the pedestals.

A deep groan and a crackle snapped behind her.

Twirling around, Nine found the carnations piled on the floor near the weak spot. The fasteners still held the stems. Heads had been lopped off!

Glancing around, Nine found no intruder. No doors had opened. She would have heard it. How could have someone snuck so close behind her and escaped unseen? No ghost could cut flowers, or put weight on the floor. Someone had to be hiding nearby.

Keeping watch over the nave, she marched to the side and down the aisle. An intruder with dark enough clothing could move about in the back, she thought. She checked between benches in each row, scouted the back, and hurried up the other side peeking between benches.

Nothing.

Returning to head of the alley, she gazed down at the pile of stemless, ruined carnations—at innocence lost.

No, not a pile, she realized. Clumped close together the white carnations formed the number, nine.

Only one thought came to mind. Anyone sneaky enough to remain hidden within the chapel was equally skilled at breaching inside the doorless tomb and mark the window.

Everyone gathered around Beth to look her phone. In the photo, they stood in a line all dressed in white blouses with black neckties, except for the kitchen staff, Boris wearing an apron over a polo and Crank in a Tee shirt. It was their first group photo of recently opened, Autumn Twilight. Barely visible in the background stood a coffin decorated with paper ghost and pumpkins for Hallowe’en.

The youngest waitress, Laura, waved as she buzzed for the door. She had school in the morning. Nine waved back, belatedly, as the front door banged shut. As others filed out, Nine waited patiently, fist-bumping Crank on his way out.

Nine had only one thing on her mind: the coffin, curiously delivered to Autumn Twilight by an anonymous sender. She had recognized the model, sold more often for vampire groupie fashion than for the actual dead, at least in her experience at the funeral home. Caskets are far more popular, and the manufacturer had recently discontinued this coffin model.

Spotting Peter studying the coffin, Nine rushed over and bumped shoulders with him.

“Want to open it now?” asked Nine.

She couldn’t help but grin at Peter’s consternation with the sealed coffin. Uncertain if the restaurant owner had heard her, she elbowed him and reminded him her tools were in the break room.

“Sure,” said Peter, appearing dubious.

On her way upstairs, Nine met Beth coming down onto the landing overlooking the stage.

“He’s a handsome one, isn’t he?” said Beth, grinning.

“Oh, sure,” said Nine. Cute, no doubt, but Peter was her boss. Uncertain how to respond, she shrugged, and words came out of her mouth anyway. “I think it’s great how he’s trying to continue his father’s dream running a restaurant.”

“Even though he’s terribly inexperienced?”

“Peter will get the hang of it,” said Nine, “with a little help.”

“Uh-huh,” said Beth, rolling her eyes. “Just try not to help him too much, sweetie.”

Eager to drop this line of chit-chat, Nine smiled politely and wished the woman a goodnight. There were far more important things on her mind. Fetching the tools from her locker, she hurried back downstairs.

Still standing in the same spot, Peter gazed at the coffin in dismay. Nine tried to think of something to ease his mind. Funeral home humor rarely went over well outside the funeral home, and thinking better of it, she got started on the task of breaking the seal. She handed one of the pry bars to Peter, and she sat down at the narrow end of the coffin. Peter gave the tool a queer look and knelt down on one knee at the head of the coffin.

“If we’re careful,” said Nine, “the damage will be minimal so we can sell this bad boy.” She set the twin-lever end into the crack of the lid and smacked it hard forcing the prongs in. “If you want to sell it, I mean.”

Imitating Nine’s effort, Peter wedged his pry bar in at his end. Nine counted to three, and together they leaned their weight on the bars. The seal crackled, but the lid held.

“Peter,” said Nine, “if we find a pile of candy in here I’m going to smack you for not opening it sooner.”

“Why’s that?”

“Think about it! Trick-or-treaters grabbing handfuls of candy from a coffin. We could have been the coolest business on the block.”

Instead, they had handed out candy from plastic jack-o-lantern buckets. Still fun, but grabbing candy from inside an actual coffin would be a blast. If only kids came trick-o-treating to the funeral home. None ever did.

Nine counted again, and on three, they pushed on the levers. A quiet snap, and the coffin groaned.

“It’s the seal,” said Nine. Noticing Peter’s concerned expression, she smiled. “We’d smell it if there was anything atrocious inside.”

Shipping a body requires a special container and must be shipped from a registered shipper. Certain destinations may require, or not allow, embalming before transport. Please see your funeral servicer for details and rates.

Note: any shipment request for a live person, including a person claiming to be, or accused of being, a vampire, will be refused.

Lid popping open, the coffin spewed find dust smelling like cinnamon and lavender. So much for candy. Setting the opener aside, Peter grasped the lid and lifted.

No padding inside, only a red liner. A rectangular silver canister sat in the middle nearly consuming the width. Hanging on the near side was what appeared to be samurai sword, perhaps some toy for men, thought Nine. A composition book caught her attention. Snatching it up, she began flipping through pages. Chemistry, mostly, and some dated journal entries.

Leaning over, Peter examined the canister lid sealed closed with clear tape. Brown tape held something attached on the side, which he poked at. Nine spotted a blue sticky at the corner of the canister and leaned in for a better look.

“Keep in freezer,” said Nine, reading the sticky. On the back side of the canister, more tape held something attached. She ripped it at once pulling a pair of items free. “And two syringes. What is this about, Peter?”

Peter shook his head.

Nine finished ripping the tape free and lifted the canister lid. Inside, she found two bags containing a red substance sitting on a bed of card ice pellets. According to the label on the bag, it contained blood. Someone had shipped biological contents without proper paperwork. Lifting the bag, she showed the label to Peter.

“Thank you for pointing out the obvious,” said Peter.

A bit rude, Nine thought and scowled at Peter. Turning her attention back on the canister, she found a third bag at the bottom. Squishing the bag pushed frosty bubbles around inside the clear liquid. Two bags of blood and mystery goo.

“Peter, this is one weird box of treats.”

The coffin appeared to be in great condition, though. Could fetch a nice price. “The red interior is divine.”

“Dammit,” said Peter, grinning. “Now I wish you had talked me into opening it sooner. A pile of candy in the coffin would have been sweet.”